


Of Nightmares and Dreams

by graceverse



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Post-Episode: s06e09 Battle of the Bastards, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-27 07:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceverse/pseuds/graceverse
Summary: Now, Jon was the one left to take care of Sansa. Now she was his to protect. Such a possessive word. His. It scared him. It thrilled him. Just thinking of it made his lungs hurt, it was like he was drowning and could not breathe. It made him sick to his stomach.





	1. Part I

Jon’s nightmares had never left him. At Castle Black, they came every night: bones as cold and brittle as ice, clawing at his face, tiny strips of his skin falling slowly on the ground. Beyond the wall, the dreams changed, they became more difficult to remember but it terrified him nonetheless, the nightmares that he couldn’t recall. White and blue light flitting past his eyes, shadows lurking around him, things that he couldn’t fight, that couldn’t be killed by any kind of weapon.

The most recurring nightmare was about arrows pierced through hearts and eyes covered in red hair, kissed not by the sun, but by blood. He wanted to reach out and save her, but he couldn’t. Arms were holding him back, black faceless shadows surrounding him as they repeatedly stabbed his already dead body. He tried to move, to run, but his feet were tangled from the mangled and rotting bodies around him, the stench of death and decay, smothering him. Brothers of the Night Watch. Free folk. Direwolves. Giants. All dead and rotting.

The nightmares always visited him at night. Always. Without fail.

 

* * *

 

Months and weeks had passed. He was no longer a Brother of the Night’s Watch. He was no longer a Free Folk. He was back to being Jon Snow. Some would call him Lord Snow, others would still mutter ‘bastard’ beneath their breaths, soft enough that he would often wonder if he had really heard it. But it does not matter. He was back at Winterfell, surrounded by new faces.

His Lord father Ned Stark, Lady Catelyn, Robb, Bran, Arya, Rickon. They were gone. As lost to him as Ygritte and Master Aemon.

Jory too. And Hullen and Mikken and Farlen. Maester Lwin, also gone. All those that had marched South with his father and sisters, those who had stayed and fought off Theon and the Boltons, those that he had dreamt of and had desperately prayed of seeing again, all of them were now gone.

There was only one person left who still reminded him of home. Who still made Winterfell home.

But she gives him precious little smiles and most of them doesn’t even reach her eyes. He remembered her as quiet and dutiful but never sad, never so melancholy and so terribly pale. He would often stare at her hard enough to make sure that she isn't a ghost, that she was with him, present and alive. He wants her happy. And safe. That was all that mattered to him. But whatever joy he had seen in her eyes when they had been younger had been chased away by dark shadows and safety was something she no longer believes in. Even under his protection, even when he had promised her that she will never be hurt again. She knows his words are empty.

Words are wind.

And so Jon strives most days to bring her good news, no matter how small or inconsequential it may seem. The Free Folk, especially the women, settling happily in the castle, glad of the warmth and the stone walls that will protect their children. The sections of Winterfell that were slowly being rebuilt. As soon as he could find skilled workers, he will have the glass garden fixed. He has already asked Ser Davos if they could somehow acquire lemons, Jon doesn't particularly care how. He had mentioned this to her and for a moment the Lady of Winterfell had given him a fond, gentle smile that lit up her blue eyes and his heart ached. 

Yesterday, he found a master sculptor who he had immediately tasked to repair the beheaded Direwolves guarding the crypt. Sansa had clutched his arm, squeezing almost painfully, as she whispered her thanks. She always thanked him. For all the little good tidings that he would offer her. It made him feel like he was laying treasures and kingdoms upon her feet and she was often breathless with gratitude, as though she had never thought she would have anything to be happy about, ever.

Jon had known so many kinds of cruelty when he had been a young recruit, and later on Lord Commander, of the Night's Watch. But he could tell by Sansa's broken smiles that Ramsay had a different kind of cruelty.

Sansa had told him but little of how she had suffered and most of the time, Jon had the feeling that she had not meant to tell him at all. He often wished that Sansa would open up to him more, to let him carry some of her burdens, to share her nightmares. He had no way of explaining why he needed to have all her wounds made known to him. Only that he knew he wanted to somehow soothe her pain and if he could, to take some of it for himself, aware that the knowledge will also haunt him, make him feel all the more guilty for coming to her rescue too late. For choosing a sworn brotherhood that in the end, had so completely and utterly betrayed him.

He could have ridden South to help Robb avenge their father's death. He could have ridden straight to King's Landing and saved his sisters. He would have been able to find them and take them home. He could have ridden back to Winterfell, defend it from the treacherous Theon and his Iron Born army. He could've stopped so much death if he had only forsaken his duty and honor.

Duty had killed them all.

Honor had killed them all.

How else did _Duty and Honor_ failed the Starks?

 

* * *

 

It didn’t take long for him to find out. 

Their rooms were not too far from each other, unlike before when he was almost nearer to Jory’s and the rest of his father’s most trusted men. Now he was but a few steps away from the Lord’s Chamber.

He heard her screams, the terrifying heart-stopping wail of pain.

The first time her cries reached his rooms, he had thought the screaming was from his own dreams, but it had pierced him awake and he immediately bolted from his bed, running straight to her chambers. Brienne was there – she was always there – and had sternly told him that Sansa was unharmed and that there was no _need_ for Longclaw. Jon hadn’t even realized that he held his sword so tightly, his knuckles had turned white.  

"Move." He very rarely ordered anyone around, let alone his sister's sworn sword. Brienne wasn't his to order in the first place, but he wasn't going to leave just because Sansa wasn't being physically harmed. She was in pain. He will not turn his back from her.

“Who is it?” The voice that asked could not have belonged to Sansa, not the Sansa who had boldly told him that she will take Winterfell back with or without his help. Not the Sansa who had told Ramsay that he will die tonight. It was a voice of a little girl, scared and trembling.

Jon stepped forward, ignoring Brienne who had also moved to bar him from entering Sansa’s bedchambers.

“It’s me. Will you let me in, please?”

There was no answer but the door opened and Jon met Sansa’s blue eyes, weary and darker than ever. The light coming from behind her smeared shadows that were the color of bruises across her tear-stained cheeks.

“Jon…I…I’m fine. I’m..." she glanced briefly at Brienne, taking a deep breath, "I'm sorry to have wakened you, My Lord.”

That made him furious. He gritted his teeth, jaws working tightly as he struggled not to force himself inside her room. She need not hide from him, this wounded girl haunted by nightmares. He was family. He may not be Robb or any of her true brothers, but he was still family.

More than that, Jon had promised her protection and there were a thousand things he could never be able to protect her from, nightmares just one of the many, but he could at least offer her some sort of comfort. “Sansa –” the warning tone on his voice made her nervously swallow. “Please.” He added, gentler this time.

“Perhaps you should put on some clothing first, my Lord.” Brienne said and it took Jon a second to realize that he wasn’t wearing much. He could feel his whole face turning red, suddenly infuriated at himself, at Sansa and at Brienne all at the same time. He felt foolish. But he stood his ground. It doesn't matter. They were half-siblings, why should it matter?!

“It’s fine. Here.” Sansa answered, handing him a thick fur coat. Belatedly, Jon realized it could not have been hers, it was far too heavy and it was only later when he had shed the cloak in his room did he recognized who it belonged to.

It was Ned Stark’s. An old one. Sansa had probably found it when she had taken their father’s room. 

It was their father’s, aye, but it smelled of her. Clean and lemony and faintly sweet. Something he couldn’t name, but he could easily recognize as _Sansa_.  

Jon hadn’t meant to stay longer than needed, hadn’t meant to wait until Sansa had fallen back asleep but it had become a routine, only the next time it happened, he made sure he wasn’t running half naked inside her room.

At first, she would tell him little about her nightmares. She said she didn’t remember but he had the patience for that. Nights of standing guard on top of the wall, doing nothing but staring into the snow had taught him patience. 

Slowly, gently, he pressed and prodded and persisted, until she started to share small details: Lady, her gentle direwolf, howling mournfully, red blood gushing from the cut on her neck.

_They made father kill Lady. She was kind and good and never hurt anyone._

Sometimes, the nightmares brought her back in King’s Landing. She was kneeling before the Iron Throne, being stripped naked in front of the whole jeering court, the sound of tearing fabrics filling her ears, until she realized it was her skin that they were slowly tearing apart and Joeffry was gone and it was Ramsay who was pulling her hair, so he could force her face down on fur pillows that still faintly smelled of Robb.

_He took Robb’s room. He tied me up on Robb’s bed. He…_

Jon would have to stop her from telling him more because she was gasping for breath and Jon could feel his own blood singing inside his ears, could feel his fingers digging deeply into his clenched fists, wanting and needing to hurt Ramsay and everyone that allowed all the horrifying things that had happened to Sansa. Sweet Sansa, who never had been unkind to anyone. She had been, when she was younger, perhaps a little bit foolish, too soft-hearted and fanciful, as most young girls were. Who could ever fault her for that? She certainly did not deserve to be treated as some King or Lord's plaything.

_Sometimes, I dream of father and mother. They never smile at me. They look at me with sad, disappointed eyes, Jon. And all I ever wanted was to save father. I wanted to be like mother: kind and gentle and strong. I wanted to be good, like Lady, but I’ve done so many horrible things, Jon and I can’t take them back and they would be so ashamed of what I have become…the things I had to do…_

This was her worst nightmare and Jon would have to force her to look at him every time he tells her that father and Lady Catelyn Stark would _never_ think that way, they would be happy that she was alive, they would be so proud of her. She had taken Winterfell back and everyone loved her.

_But I am hateful!_

Jon would have to bite back an angry growl, would force himself to remain calm. He hated that she could think herself as hateful. Nothing could be more wrong, and Sansa needed to understand that. He would gently cup her face with his hand, titling her face towards him so he could meet her tearful blue eyes. “Promise me you’ll never _ever_ think like that again. You are _not_ hateful."

And Sansa would whimper and shake her head, "But you don't understand! If you knew what I did... you will hate me too. You will think me weak and foolish. A coward."

Jon would pull her closer, his other arm going around her trembling form. "You were young. Whatever it is that you think you have done, there is nothing in this will world that will make me hate you, Sansa. _**Nothing**_." And it was the absolute truth. Jon could only guess what Sansa thinks an act so unforgivable. It probably had something to do with their father's death. But she had been young and alone at King's Landing. And whatever transgression she still felt guilty about, she had already paid for it with her wounds and tears, with her unwavering courage in taking Winterfell back. She had avenged the deaths of Robb and Lady Catelyn and all the Northern Lords by ending the Boltons.  

He would repeat this to her every night and he will do so until she finally believed in it. It was a fight he had not yet won. But soon enough, he will convince her that she was never _hateful_. She was young and naïve, too trusting, but she had always been kind when it was kindness that was needed.

In the quiet of the night, with him sitting on her bed, Jon would let her quietly sob into his chest, fingers curled around his night shirt. He felt his heart expanding to let all her sorrows in and when her sobbing has finally grown faint, he would tuck her into bed, kissing her forehead.

 

* * *

 

“Do you never have nightmares, Jon?” Sansa sleepily asked him the other night and Jon merely shook his head. There was no sense in burdening her with faceless brothers killing him, the army of dead trying to claw off his face, dead lovers with arrows piercing their hearts.

She especially did not need to know about the nightmares that would visit him as soon as he was back in his chambers.

“That’s good. That’s good, Jon. I’m glad.” She murmured and ever so slowly, she leaned forward to tenderly kiss him on his eyes, the one with the scar. Jon’s heart stopped beating and didn’t start back up again until Sansa had snuggled deeper into her pillow, sleeping almost immediately.

He sat there at the edge of her bed, watching her for a long time, just looking at the way her eyelids would flutter, the gentle curve of her cheeks, the strong chin, the only Stark feature on her otherwise Tully face. He sat there, without really thinking of anything, just gazing at her and trying to remember her as a child.

Her being happy at his apparent lack of nightmare was something he could connect to that little girl. She thought she had been awful to him but Jon couldn’t really remember anything specific that stood out from his memory. Maybe it was just time playing tricks on them, maybe it was what they all had to endure after they left Winterfell that rendered childhood transgressions trivial. 

But really, there wasn’t a time that Sansa had physically hurt him or had verbally abused him. She had called him half-brother, but he had been called worst. She couldn’t have been that _bad_. When she was a little, she cried about injured birds and would grow pale at the sight of blood. Theon once sneered at that and Robb was quick to bloody up _his_ nose. Sansa hadn’t really paid him any attention when they were children and maybe he _had_ taken offense then, but looking back now, it all seemed petty. He didn’t pay her any attention either. Her daily activities didn’t intersect with his. Rarely was she allowed outside, especially when she was growing up. She was the _only_ daughter of Lord Stark, before Arya was born, so _of course_ , boys were not allowed near her.

On the rare occasion that they were allowed to play together, she never turned her nose up at him, would always choose him as one of her brave knights, not her champion of course, that was Robb, but he was never turned away. It wasn’t until when she finally understood his status at Winterfell that she started avoiding him. And it wasn’t just him. She snubbed Theon too. She only tolerated them to please Robb.

Perhaps more than anything, _this_ was the reason why Jon never really became close to Sansa. Robb had long ago claimed her as _his_ sister and was _his_ to protect and to take care of. She didn’t particularly need Jon to help her as she tried to walk on her own, or when she was old enough, to learn how to ride her horse or when she was older, trying to teach Lady tricks. Robb had been there for all _that_. 

Robb had been the one who came to her when she had nightmares, was the one who would berate Old Nan for telling Sansa stories about giants and wights coming for little girls who refused to sit still so that her hair could be braided. Robb had been the one who comforted Sansa whenever she was mercilessly teased by Arya or Bran. Robb was the one who made sure Sansa did not get any inappropriate, lingering looks from anyone, including Theon.

Sansa had always been Robb’s from the moment she was born. He doted upon Sansa and was so utterly devoted to her.  

And although Robb loved Arya just as much as he loved Sansa, Arya very rarely needed saving. She had been born fiercely independent, so different from Sansa. Arya was proud of the cuts and bruises she would get from playing roughly with the boys. She loathed it whenever Robb tried to defend her from the very same boys who had reluctantly agreed to play with her in the first place. Arya had so thoroughly confused Robb. 

Jon didn't exactly helped Robb out with Arya. He had silently observed, amused as Robb tried to give Arya gentle praises for looking lovely, even though Arya’s hair refused to be tamed in the morning and would end up being all messed up and filled with hay by noon time. Jon had chuckled to himself every time Robb declared Arya his precious Lady that he would save from Dragons and monsters from beyond the wall. Arya _wanted_ to be the dragon or the monster when they played. She hated being the princess kept locked in a tower, waiting to be saved. She'd grow bored and would announce that she was saving herself, by turning into a fire-breathing dragon. Robb used to tilt his head at Arya's exclamations, clearly baffled. How does one save a Lady turned into a Dragon, exactly?!  

Jon had seen a bit of himself in Arya, not just because they seemed to have the same face – lean and severe, dark hair, dark gray eyes, but she didn’t seem to fit in with what Robb thought little sisters ought to be, just as he couldn't truly fit in and belong to Winterfell. A bastard he will always be. Never truly part of Father and Lady Stark's family.

It had taken Robb a while to figure out how Arya was different from Sansa but by then Arya had already bonded with Jon, who was more than happy to have someone he could secretly take care of. He’d laugh with her whenever she triumphantly defeated the boys she would play swords with. Of course he always had to glare at those boys over Arya’s shoulder, so they knew not to hit too hard, not to move as quickly as they could. Arya need not know that and it boosted her confidence. She shared with him her glorious victories over the secret war she waged against the Septas. Escaping their boring lectures on sewing and cooking and trying to manage the household had been her biggest adventure.

Arya idolized her brothers, Robb _and_ Jon, both. She had seen them practice with their arrows and swords and longed to best them. Sansa on the other hand saw her brother as her hero, but _only_ Robb. After all, a lady only needed one true hero. Of course, Robb was still Arya’s true brother and it wasn’t long before Robb had managed to charm Arya over to his side. Although Jon was certain that he was – and will always be Arya’s favorite.

It hurt to think of Arya. There was always a bright throbbing pain inside his chest whenever he thought of her. The hope that she was still alive, he carried it with him, guarding it fiercely; never voicing his certainty that brave Arya was still out there, surviving it all. He knows that she will find her way back to Winterfell, just as Sansa had.

 

And while he waited for Arya's return, Jon secretly relished being able to take care of Sansa without fearing the disapproving looks from Lady Cateleyn.

Now she was _his_ to protect.

Such a possessive word. _His._

It scared him. It thrilled him. Just thinking of it made his lungs hurt, it was like he was drowning and could not breathe. It made him sick to his stomach.  

Sansa was like Winterfell. He’d wanted Winterfell ever since he was a boy but he never allowed himself to truly _want_ Winterfell, enough to take it from Robb. And yet here he is now, Lord of Winterfell, King in the North.

He would never have thought of bearing the responsibility of Sansa’s well being, her happiness – that used to be Robb’s too - and yet here he was, comforting her every time nightmares would plague her, listening to her counsel, seeking her approval, sharing the burdens of managing not just Winterfell, but the North and the Free Folk who were now also under their protection, wanting her smile, needing her presence.

It was all too much to think about. And Jon had found himself fighting against the all too familiar feelings of needing and wanting. It reminded him too much of a different red haired woman. At daytime, it was all too easy to dismiss the sudden overwhelming protectiveness he felt for Sansa as some latent brotherly affection he had not been allowed to feel and express when he was younger. It explained the sometimes disorienting intensity of his feelings 

But at night, when he refused to sleep, after he had kissed Sansa goodnight, he would often wondered how having her so near him somehow made him feel complete. It was as though all the dark missing pieces he felt inside him after he had come back from the nothingness of death had slowly come together. And that being away from Sansa, he would soon unravel. And so despite his own stern reminder to refrain from touching her more than necessary, to stop looking for her at every council meeting, to stop the longing in his chest, he would find himself vowing that he will never be parted from Sansa.

This more than anything, more than any nightmare, scared him.

 

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it… this…" she waved her hand between them, "but I have, haven’t I?” The gentleness of her voice, the way the light from the flames of the fireplace made her skin look golden, her hair even more radiant than the afternoon sun, Jon could feel his heart stuttering inside his chest.

Winter nights was something Jon and Sansa had both experienced as children and he remembered all those years ago when they had sat inside their Lord Father’s solar, soaking up the heat from the great fireplace, where they were all gathered and scattered around it. Bran, Arya and Rickon had not been born then.

He and Robb would be sitting with their father; eyes wide and gleaming as they admired Ice or listened in awe at their father’s stories about The North (Ned never did tell them war stories, Jon realized).

Sansa usually sat nearer to the fire, almost always with Lady Catelyn, needing the light as they did their sewing. Sansa always hummed gently to herself, some sweet song whose name Jon could never guess. He remembered trying to sneak glances at what she was making, although he was certain he’d see the finished garment adorning Robb’s shirt. It’s usually crooked outlines of gray direwolves dancing across a piece of cloth the color of palest green.

Jon used to contemplate the possibility of being granted such a wonderful gift and later on, had accepted the fact that he might never really be allowed to wear the Stark emblem. But now he wore leather tunics embossed with two direwolves facing each other. Sansa’s very own design. Now he wore a cloak, befitting the Lord of Winterfell and it wasn't just any ordinary cloak. Sansa he had made it _for_ him. She had never made Robb anything more complicated that embroidered short linen tunics and usually, it was just a single direwolf, meant to represent Robb.

Would she have made Robb something like this had he lived? Would she had given Jon something like this had Robb and the rest of their family lived?

Jon wondered about it once and then decided that it was foolish to be jealous of dead brothers. Foolish and disloyal. He decided he would rather be thankful for what he had now than trying to diminish it with the past. He did not want to tarnish Sansa's exquisite gift that made him warm all over. 

* * *

 

Their last summer together, before King Robert had decided to visit them, they had found themselves inside Ned’s solar. He had casually announced that he had been exchanging ravens with The King and there was a possibility of the Royal Family visiting them. Nothing was still certain, after all, Winterfell was miles away from King's Landing. Perhaps it will never even happen.

But it didn't matter to the children. To them, the visit was already a certainty and there had been a mix of reactions: Sansa swooning at the prospect of meeting the crowned prince, Robb and Bran excitedly wondering out loud whether King Robert would bring his infamous war hammer, Arya slyly asking about The Imp and Rickon, being just but a little boy, couldn’t care less.

Jon had been quiet and he was filled with trepidation. The Royal Family coming to Winterfell. Would he be ordered to stay away from them? To hide? 

Lady Catelyn merely glanced at him, as though reading his mind. But nothing else was said and eventually, they all made their way towards their usual places; Robb with their father, discussing the daily duties of the Lord of Winterfell, Sansa with Lady Catelyn, sewing and Bran and Arya pulling him towards make shift turrets and towers made from pillows stacked together.

“Play! Play!” Rickon had demanded.

Arya always wanted to infiltrate Rickon’s castle. Destroying it was more fun than trying to defend it.

Jon watched Sansa as he relayed this particular memory. Her eyes gleamed and she eagerly nodded her head, “Oh! Yes, I remember! Arya kicked a pillow and it went straight to the hearth, catching fire and everyone scrambled away in terror!”

And Sansa laughed. Truly laughed. Eyes bright and joyful.

Jon felt something inside his chest delightfully constricting. How wonderful to see her happy! He wanted to suddenly lunge forward and kiss her _laughter_. He wanted to swallow it whole, to taste it, to let it become part of him.

Heart hammering inside his chest, hands clenched into tight fist, Jon savagely tried to get rid of the impulse to grab her.

_What is wrong with him?_

Jon swallowed hard, shook his head and slowly moved away from Sansa (but, was there a distance safe enough?) “Arya always did know how to get into trouble.” He added with a strangled chuckle, shaking his head. At this very moment, he felt both content and at peace, and truly shaken to the core at the sudden impulse to kiss Sansa. Well, not _Sansa_ , really, but her _joy_...but yes, Sansa. His half-sister.

 _What is happening to him_?

And why can’t he just stop these nightly visits that was obviously wreaking havoc on his heart?  Her nightmares had dwindled and some nights, even without her terrified screams, Jon would still find himself visiting Sansa’s chamber, staying for hours on end. Sometimes he brought some ale (but only after making sure that it tasted alright) and they would just be _together_.

They mostly shared stories: how her day went, how did he ever manage to calm Tormund down. They exchanged complaints: the Vale Knight and their ridiculous pomposity, the Northern Lords and their proud airs. They gave each other compliments: well done with organizing the women and children into sewing more winter clothes, how wonderful to have the Free Folk help in destroying Dreadfort, the stone and timbers that they have torn down will be theirs, to make their own homes with.

Sometimes it’s a continuation of an argument they had at a council meeting but he awalsy make a conscious effort that they never part ways angry at each other. Often he’d assure her that he listened to her counsel, more than he was willing to admit and she’d give him an almost playful look before shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “You’ve got a thick skull, Jon. I know you think I’m trying to undermine you, but I support you in _all_ your decisions. If only you would explain it to me first. Is that too much to ask for?”

There was something refreshing about Sansa when she isn’t trying to be the docile Lady their Septa’s have trained her to be. She was fiery and fierce when it mattered and she knew exactly _when_ it mattered.

“Aye. You’re right. I’m sorry. You know more about politics than I do, Sansa. Don’t ever think that I do not need your insight.”

She had seemed so pleased with that, her whole face had lit up, she practically glowed. “We do make a good team.”

“Aye, we do. Until I mention Littlefinger and how I want cut off his head and offer it up to you. So don’t worry,” he would hastily add, seeing her disapproving expression, “I won’t even say it and ruin the peace between us.”

Sansa would sigh at this overly discussed topic. “Littlefinger will never ruin anything between us. But we need him, Jon. And I know you will say that we don’t and we will keep arguing over it, so I will also not say anything as well.” And her eyebrows would raise in a half-challenging, half-playful manner.

Jon enjoyed her vivacity, especially since she very rarely displays it. In fact, perhaps, she only shows it to him. Another thing that belong to him. And if was being truly honest with himself, he liked having _Sansa Things_ that belonged only to him. He could not help it, not after being a bastard all of his life, deprived for so long of affections and courtesies.

Tonight, there were no mentions of politics and policies and things that needed to be repaired or the lack of coins in their coffers. Tonight, they allowed themselves to reminisce.

Sansa looked at him, smiling; completely unaware of the raging turmoil that was plaguing his thoughts. The expression on her face was tender and peaceful before turning serious. And slowly, she looked away, “It’s nice isn’t it?” She asked in a soft, faltering voice. “To think of them and remember and not be sad. I… I didn’t think I’d be able to, not this soon and not without... no without wanting to have... died with them too.”

Jon felt his whole body going cold, his heart going straight down into the pit of his stomach. He reached out, holding both her shoulders, barely stopping himself from shaking her. “Don’t. Sansa, don’t _ever_ say that!” He almost growled the words out, everything inside him raging against the thought of losing her. 

She gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it… _this_ …" she waved her hand between them, "but I have, haven’t I?” The gentleness of her voice, the way the light from the flames of the fireplace made her skin look golden, her hair even more radiant than the afternoon sun, Jon could feel his heart stuttering inside his chest.

But gods, she is so very pretty and why could she not just lean towards him, her body soft and warm and pliant? He will hold her and never let go. She was always warm, even when she was angry. Sansa, Daughter of Winterfell, never looked or felt cold. Not to him. And Jon wanted nothing more than to bask in her warmth. He wanted to wrap her protectively inside his arm, like it would somehow stop her happiness from escaping her. He wanted her to lean into his hug, rest her cheeks against his chest. But perhaps that would not be wise. She might hear the mighty thudding of his heart, might notice the way he would deeply inhale her scent, or the way he would pull her even closer, so that she’s safely nestled within his embrace.

That stepped beyond being siblings, did it not?

Jon found that at this moment, he didn’t particularly care. Who was to say how one should felt towards one’s half-sister? The gods? The gods were cruel and cared nothing about them. The people of this realm? If he did not care about the gods, then he surely did not give a fuck about the same people who would accept a king like Joeffrey Baratheon.

Jon did not care. Not anymore. He was tired of caring and hadn’t he died already? Did it not free him from the capricious laws of gods and men?

Jon swallowed hard. _Kill the boy. Let the man be born._

Brothers of The Night Watch had killed him. The red woman brought him back, true. But he had not become a man, not until after he had taken Winterfell back, not after he had refused the instinct of a _boy_ to run away and let the Seven Kingdoms deal with the ice and death.

He had faced death once again, this time as a man who knew that he was outnumbered, that defeat was imminent, but he had not given up and then he had looked up and he saw Sansa’s face, proud and beautiful, urging him to live.

_Let the man live._

And would he, a man now truly alive, would he dare bring sweet Sansa into sin with him? Would he allow her to be tainted by these feeling he was already sick of denying? He would ruin her. The last woman he had loved died fighting against him. He dare not think what fate will befall Sansa if he allowed his feelings to consume him.

And anyway, would Sansa even feel the same way? Because it would not matter if she only saw him as her bastard half brother. He would never force or trick her into his arms. Jon would rather die. And then maybe, the cruel gods will let him live in another time, as another man and he could find her, no longer his half-sister, but a woman he could freely love.    

Jon sighed, letting go of her. It was late, they both needed their sleep. His thoughts have spiraled into devastating realizations and he wanted to be alone in his room, to not be so near her. He leaned down to gently press a kiss on her forehead, just as he had done countless of times before. “No, you didn’t ruin anything, Sansa. But it is rather late and I fear Lady Brienne might cough out one of her lungs if I stay longer.” (He had been staying in Sansa’s room longer and longer, lingering until Brienne would loudly cough outside.)

Sansa giggled good-naturedly. “Brienne is just as protective of me as you are.” 

“I don't doubt it.” He let out another tired sigh, bringing a hand over to his face, trying to hid the frustration that would obviously show. “I just do not wish to deal with people talking behind our backs about the amount of time I spend in your chambers.”

“Brienne would do no such thing. As for the other people, they do not understand.” Sansa said in the same dauntless voice she had used so many moons ago when she had declared her plans of getting Winterfell back. “Besides, I do not care what they say or think.” There was a certain vehemence in her voice that made Jon’s heart leap. “We are not doing anything wrong.”

Jon swallowed slowly, mouth suddenly dry. What does she mean by that? He feared he looked terribly worried because Sansa took his hand, enclosing it on both her hands.

“Truly, I don’t. You are Jon. And you will never hurt me. At least not knowingly.” She added in a deadpan, giving him another rare playful smile.

“Sansa, I would never… but… aye, you are right again. I might sometimes do things that will hurt you.”

“Foolish things.” Sansa agreed nodding, keeping his hand trapped within hers. “But I know you do it only to protect me and the North.”

 _Just you._ Jon wanted to add, but didn’t. “I will avoid doing foolish things then.”

“Thank you, that is all I truly ask.”

“Alright then. Good night, Sansa, my sweet girl.” He added in a voice so soft, he was sure she hadn’t heard it. He used his free hand to briefly run his thumb along her scalp in a soothing gesture before lightly dropping it down, but not without moving his hand away, so that he could still, almost barely, like a touch of a ghost, caress her cheeks, the corner of her lips and finally her chin.

Sansa blinked up at him, her blue eyes bright, her face sweet and calm, “Good night, Jon. And thank you. I’m so very happy you’re here with me.”

He hadn’t expected her to have heard him. He had been terrified of the thought that she would not want to be _his_ sweet girl, but she had smiled at him, that soft smile that made her eyes light up. She had not protested, had not denied him of that.

It was the only bright thing in the darkest night, when nightmares haunted him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh. Okay. This might be longer than two chapters. I wanted to thank everyone who had left wonderful comments and their kudos. Means a lot to me!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She mumbles his name against his cheeks and Jon could feel the warmth of her breath, the heat of her tears. “I’m sorry Sansa. I’m so sorry.” He tilts her face up, so he can look into her blue eyes before gently pressing the blade against her neck. She surrenders herself to him, lifting her chin, a flash of understanding burning bright in her eyes before she bravely nods and closes her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the nightmare begins.

Tired and forlorn, filled with equal parts guilt and willfulness, Jon Snow slept as soon as he threw himself unto his bed. Trying to comprehend the intensity of his feelings towards Sansa had completely drained him. He felt utterly powerless to do anything about it; whether to finally embrace it or to deny it and fight against it, he truly did not know. Decisions could not be made now and so he closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness that he succumbed to.

But Jon’s nightmares never left him. Not even in his exhausted state. It always comes to him and it starts the same way every time: inside the dungeons that once held Bolton’s hounds.

Bolton is always there, as though waiting for him, half of his face missing, bits and pieces of flesh, bloody strips wetly falling off as he grinned. Sitting quietly beside him was the largest black dog Jon has ever seen. It’s bigger than Ghost and its eyes were dark and round and huge and impossibly friendly, it almost seemed harmless, except for the fact that it was chewing on what appeared to be Ramsay’s nose.

“Bastard,” Ramsay welcomes him, giving him a gruesome smile. “Come and see.” He urges and Jon, unable to stop himself, unable to swing Longclaw, wordlessly follows. He always follows.

It’s a long silent walk, the dungeon becoming a hallway and then a crypt, dark shadows creeping and flitting past wet-stone walls. He is led up stairs, towards the Lord’s Chamber and already, he could feel his stomach churning.

“No.” He manages to say, making himself stop beyond the door. He had won the battle. Ramsay is dead. Sansa is safe.

“Come and see, Bastard.” Ramsay’s mangled face looms before him and suddenly, there were no more walls, just darkness all around him. There were at Godswood but inside a castle. They were both outside and inside: it was cold and it was snowing but there were candles everywhere, on his feet was thick, black liquid. Blood, sill fresh and warm and wet. Dead Bolton soldiers were standing around him, faces torn, bellies slashed opened, arms and limbs missing. At the far end, he glimpses a boy, Rickon’s age when they had left Winterfell, sitting by the weir tree, arrows sticking from his whole body. Beside him, a man with a direwolf head is carefully, slowly taking the arrows out. In a comforting voice, he tells the boy that their mother would come home soon and everything will be alright.

“Here she is my lovely bride.” Ramsay declares, sweeping an arm with more bones than flesh across the room, revealing Sansa.

Jon knows she’s there. She is always there in his dreams, but he couldn’t stop himself from letting out an agonized gasp as soon as he sees her. Her auburn hair just as it had looked when she had arrived at Castle Back, curling lovingly against her temple. Her cheeks were smudged with dirt and tear stains and she looked awfully young, so terribly easy to hurt.

Bile rises up to Jon’s throat, slowly filling his mouth. _No. No this is wrong. This is **NOT** what happened._

“Jon.” Sansa’s voice sounds broken and Jon feels his heart violently thrashing inside his chest. He had promised that he won’t ever let Ramsay touch her. He had won. Hadn’t he?

_Hadn’t he?_

Ramsay is beside him, handing him an intricate dagger that he had never seen before. “Do you like games, Bastard?”

Jon didn’t answer. He couldn’t take his eyes away from Sansa. “Don’t cry, please.” He begs her, desperate to take the stark terror in her face. “It will be ok. I’ll protect you, I promise.” He tries to be as soothing as he can, but his voice wavers. He is terrified for her. 

“You can’t protect her.” The boy with the arrows said.

“Aye, you can’t protect her.” The man with a direwolf for its head solemnly agrees.

“No one can protect me.” Sansa echoes her voice already without hope.

Jon makes a move to grab Sansa, to take her away from this nightmare. He wills himself to wake up, but he can’t. He knew what was coming next. He turns towards Ramsay, pushes him with all his might, “I already won! _Enough_!”

Ramsay almost stumbles to his feet, laughing good naturedly. “Let’s play a game, shall we?”

“No!” Jon closes his eye and urgently tries to take control of this dream. He’s never done it before, had never successfully escaped his nightmares, but he tries, every fucking time. It was all that he could do, try.

“I will give you three choices,” Ramsay continues, whispering into his ears. Ramsay’s voice was just as Jon had remembered it: smooth and strangely comforting. There was almost a musical lilt to it. It sent shivers down his spine and he snaps his eyes open, helplessly staring at Sansa, who has her arms wrapped protectively over her. She’s now wearing the new dress she had sewn, the direwolf sigil hidden as she drops her head, crying softly.

“Three choices, bastard, because I’m generous like that,” And to prove it, Ramsay plucks out one of his eyes and hands it over to his dog, who happily laps it up. Jon could only watch in horror, his heart painfully slamming inside his ribs. “You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. Or you can kill her with that dagger.”

Jon looks down and somehow, he was holding the dagger, its jewels blinking up at him. He wants to throw it away, to be rid of it, but he is unable to move.

“Cut her throat. Make it quick. I don’t care.”

Jon swallows hard. No. Not like this.

_Please, wake up. Please wake up._

“And the third choice?” Sansa asks in a small pitiful voice.

“I won’t hurt you.” Jon promised her once more. “I’d rather die.”

Ramsay’s laughter ricochets around the darkness that surrounded them. “Oh, you’re going to _like_ the third choice, bastard.” Ramsay walks around Sansa, stopping to trace the curve of Sansa’s chin, his bony fingers sharp and stark white against Sansa’s pale face.

“Don’t. Touch. Her.”  Jon is beyond anger. For a second, everything around him is awash with the color of blood. He raises the dagger and furiously stabs it into Ramsay, who merely took it out and coolly hands it back to him. _Monsters that could not be defeated by any kind of weapon._

Cold flesh-less fingers wraps around Jon’s wrist as Ramsay pulls him towards him leaning close to whisper in his ears, “You can fuck her.”

Jon feels a bolt of white hot heat run straight through him, like a bolt of lighting suddenly going through his whole body. He staggers back, wrenching his arms off Ramsay’s clutch. Ramsay regards him with a lecherous smile.

"Wha---what?" He asks, confused.

"Oh, you heard me. Do you want me to say it again, bastard? Does it make you cock twitch?"

Jon feels his whole body suddenly feeling cold, like had had swallowed a whole frozen lake and his blood had turned into pure ice.

No. That wasn’t the third choice. No. No. NO!

The third choice was… what was the third choice? Something about his own suffering and humiliation... but not _that!_ Never ever that.

His dreams have never went this far. He’d always wake up by the time Ramsay’s dead soldiers have effectively encircled them and Jon was forced to fight them all off, one by one. Hands gouging and fist pummeling through flesh and bones. But it was never enough and there was always more of them. It was the reason why he always wakes up bone tired.

No. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go!

“That’s it bastard.” Ramsay said with shrug, seemingly unperturbed at the sudden change. “Watch you sister get raped. Kill her. Or fuck her.”

No.

Jon starts backing away, unable to look at Sansa.

Oh Gods, no.

No.

No.

_**NO!** _

He glances at the daggers, turns it over, brings the tip against his stomach. Just one deep, vicious stab. It should be enough to kill him, but that will be cowardly. That will leave Sansa all by herself, with Ramsay and his army and his hound and how could he ever leave her like that? Jon hears Sansa whimper, her blue eyes bright and filled tears. Horrified, he shakes his head, pulling the dagger away from him. “It’s alright, Sansa. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”

Ramsay gleefully watches them. “Choose and choose wisely, bastard.”

Ramsay’s soldiers stirred and slowly started to move towards Sansa, gathering around her, hands reaching out to touch her. She doesn’t say anything, but he could see her visibly shaking, her eyes wildly darting from one dead soldier to another. Panic rising into his chest, Jon angrily slashed at them; barreling through the dead until he is able to reach Sansa.

She mumbles his name against his cheeks and Jon could feel the warmth of her breath, the heat of her tears. “I’m sorry Sansa. I’m so sorry.” He tilts her face up, so he can look into her blue eyes before gently pressing the blade against her neck. She surrenders herself to him, lifting her chin, a flash of understanding burning bright in her eyes before she bravely nods and closes her eyes.

But he _can’t_.

And he _won’t_ wake up.

Why can’t he fucking wake up?

“That’s not the rules, bastard. If you’re not going to kill her…”

“Shut up!” He roars, pressing Sansa closer to him. He whispers endless apologies…because, he could feel her melding her body to his, the sweetness and fullness of her curves. He glances down at her, the way she has her lips partly opened as she gasped for breath. He held her closer and closer to him until he was certain that she could feel how utterly depraved he was and how he wanted her… how could wanting her be better than killing her or watching her be dishonored?

“Please Jon,” is his undoing. That softly worded plea, the way she nestled deeper into his embrace, “it’s alright…”

And suddenly —- they were all gone.

Ramsey and his half-eaten face, his dog, the dead Bolton army. The boy with the arrows. The man with a direwolf head. The snow. The darkness.

It was just him…

And Sansa…

And fire.

This has never happened before. This is not like his usual dream.

This red-black fire.

The flames licked every corner of the room, burning down the weir tree. Instead of snow falling down upon them, it was ashes, gray and soft. The fire turned Sansa’s hair almost blood red and Jon waits with closed eyes to feel bright orange red flames devour him.  He could only try and cover Sansa, his whole body pressing close – much too close, so close…

But he did not feel the searing pain of burning flesh; instead, he felt not heat, but a delicious kind of warmth. And soon, he discovers that the fire had burned everything around them.

_Everything._

Their clothes had turn into nothing but cinders. There was nothing was between them just skin against skin.

Sansa’s blue eyes stared into him and he watches as she swallows, her pale, graceful throat working exquisitely. He could not take his eyes from her face…and breathlessly, Jon leans down…wanting – no _needing_ – to kiss her, to know her warmth, to let this fire consume them both.

Did she speak his name?

He felt it more than heard it, and he answers back with her name whispered against her ears. Jon couldn’t close his eyes, did not want to, did not force himself to do anything in this dream… just chant her name: Sansa. _Sansa. **Sansa**. _

It was a prayer. A plea. An incantation that can somehow save him from – save _them_ from _this_.

Because Jon knows that once he allowed himself this dream, he will never be rid of it. It would be a torture so sweet and overwhelming and this dream will replace all the other nightmares. He will want _this_ dream; he _will_ wish it every night.

_“Do you never have nightmares, Jon?”_

No.

Not anymore.

Slowly, slowly, careful not to frighten her, Jon cups her chin and he captures her lips…

And Jon Snow wakes up from his dream, breathless, panting, wanting, needing, despairing and so, so, so… _fucked._

**Author's Note:**

> An extended version of the one I posted over at Tumblr ((http://graceverse.tumblr.com/post/166003397183/of-nightmares-and-dreams)
> 
> Everything I seemed to have written and posted in Tumblr needs to be heavily edited/corrected. I do need some help. So anyone who would like to beta for me, please message me. Early warning though, English isn't my first language. Anyway, many thanks in advance for reading this!


End file.
